Somebody's Watching Me
by LittleBlueNayru
Summary: Russia has been feeling watched by someone a lot during his week in the States.  And doesn't like it.  Random oneshot is random, surprisingly not humorous for once.


Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

Anonymous Request on the LJ Hetalia kink meme: "Okay writers! One (or more) of the characters feel like they're being watched. By who?** You.** Whether you're watching through a window, a peephole, or a rip in dimensions, you're spotted this time."

I don't have an LJ account, nor did I feel like making one for the sole purpose of filling the request, nor did I feel like writing it anonymously on a site I won't even pretend to understand how it works (hey, the only reason I step a virtual foot on that site is for a second source of fanfiction.) So, yeah, this turned from me getting bored to me getting inspired to me writing this for fun, completely for myself. But...

*Headdesk. Multiple times* By necessity of the request, I had to _Self-Insert_. Which I _loathe_ the idea of doing. I'm a boring person.

I also didn't follow the anon's prompt exactly. Uh... tear?

So this is a certain country's account of me following him around during a world meeting in America, since that's where I live. And because I live there, you all get to deal with Alfredtastic spelling, and if you complain, you get a flying shitbag to the face. (And no stealing the term "flying shitbag". It originated from _my_ imagination!)

Oh, yeah, and I do rag on us Americans a bit, because the selected country doesn't have the super-de-duper best of relationships with Al, and frankly, we deserve it (you know we do.). Boo-hoo. If you've got a problem with it, go cry a river, build a bridge, and jump off it, thank you kindly.

* * *

He felt eyes.

..._Again._

This current trip to the United States for the January World Meeting quickly proved to be on of the most taxing on Russia since the Cold War. America, for some god-unknown reason, had picked a cold, rainy, downright miserable city not even he himself enjoyed (at that time of year), and the sun hadn't shone its face for one stupid second during the entire week-long trip. The reserved five-star hotel suffered fire damage for reasons undisclosed to the disgruntled nations, which forced them to relocate to a much cheaper hotel until the suitable four-star replacement was found. And finally, Russia found himself unable to get a seat in the warmth of the cafe he had chosen for lunch, and was now stuck _outside, in the cold, freezing rain_, waiting for soup and cocoa from a restaurant that seemed to be competing for title of world's slowest service.

And _he felt eyes. Again._

He had felt eyes on him no less than twenty times throughout the week in the States, whether on his way from the hotel to the meeting building, _at_ the meeting building, out for lunch, or on his way back to the hotel room. Given the frequency of the sensation, he assumed the same person had been watching him the entire week. Due to the facts that the sensation never occurred during meetings or in the privacy of his hotel room, and didn't give him a sinking sense of dread, he did not attribute it to Belarus.

Ivan felt no fear that someone watched him, as any normal American idiot would easily be dissuaded from hostility should they choose to attack. At least he would be returning to Russia later that evening, and hopefully, whoever was watching him would never bother him in any way ever again.

However, he couldn't help but feel some discomfort and irritation as the eyes continued to drill into him as his lunch arrived. No matter. Russia began to eat his lunch, annoyed as whoever watched him continued to watch him as if The Eating Habits of Ivan Braginski While In Foreign Territory happened to be the most fascinating thing in the world. Seriously, Americans were idiots.

Not wanting to stay out in the cold, he quickly finished his soup and took a long drink from his cup of cocoa. As he drank, he slid his gaze to the left and right. No one hurriedly dropped their gaze from him. Ivan stared straight ahead, but if anything, people in a position to see him tried to avoid being noticed. He scanned all the visible entrances and windows to buildings, and found no spies viewing him through primitive binoculars. By process of elimination, Russia deduced that the mysterious watcher was somewhere behind him.

The same waitress who served him hurriedly scooped up his bowl and spoon, giving him a bill which he paid on the spot in American money. He wondered when the idiot nation would finally heed his sage advice and begin using Rubles instead of these Dollars that made getting currency such a hassle.

With the bill out of the way, Russia turned his attention to his stalker-of-sorts. Picking his pipe up from the ground, he suddenly stood up and swiveled around, almost immediately being faced by a teenaged American girl, sitting at the table behind his, watching him with impassive eyes.

Russia stared, smiling normally in an attempt to make her cower.

The girl blinked, before smiling a little hesitantly back.

The staredown continued for a moment, the girl's brown eyes taking in his imposing form, his childlike aura of cruelty combined with the knowledge of a centuries-old being, his trusty metal pipe Kindness, from behind bronze frames. Russia thought of America and Texas perched on his nose, but quickly derailed that line of thought. This girl looked nothing like America. And acted nothing like America, if her reaction, or lack thereof, was anything to go by. Her eyes displayed neither fright nor awe, and none of America's childish defiance and ignorant fearlessness. Her eyes held his in a calculating, but comfortable, unguarded, almost _friendly_, gaze.

All of a sudden, she grinned.

"I was right," she muttered softly, seemingly to herself. "You_ are_ cute."

Wait, what?

Russia blinked.

The girl stood up and stretched, leaning slightly backwards before straightening. Without elaborating on her statement, she took an blue umbrella out of her small handbag and opened it, a bright blue explosion momentarily blinding Russia in the gray wintery world. The she swung it over her shoulder and above her head. With her other hand, she picked up her own cup of cocoa, still on her table, and tilted it toward Russia with a slight nod, an acknowledgment of sorts.

"I hope you have a pleasant rest of your day, Russian Federation. And a safe, comfortable trip home."

Russia felt his little smile fall and the blood drain from his face as the girl turned to walk away. Who was that girl... and why... _how_... did she know about the Nations?

By the time Russia brought his slightly-panicked (though he would never admit it, not even to himself) thoughts under control, the blue umbrella bobbed down the street and disappeared into the inner-city crowd.

* * *

Stupid ending is stupid. Fail for Blue. That's what I get for writing at midnight on a school night.

You thought I'd physically describe myself, didya? DIDYA? Too flippin' bad. I'll tell you this, though: I look really normal. Which, given my nationality, could mean anything. Hunt me down and I'll go Elfen Lied on your ass, minus the invisible vector arms that rip people apart.

Yes. I do in fact think Russia is cute. But I would not terrorize him like Belarus.

And I do not consider Russia's mini-"panic" near the end Out-Of-Character. If normal citizens aren't supposed to know about the Nations, I think any country would be startled if a random person just came up to them and identified them as a Nation, especially if the Nation confronted didn't personify their own country.

Stupid author feels stupid for writing this. Goodnight.


End file.
